


Happy Valentine's Day

by AgusHeredia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Crowley's Wrestling Statue (Good Omens), Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love, Love Confessions, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29460297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgusHeredia/pseuds/AgusHeredia
Summary: It's February 14, a day like any other, nothing special ...Except for Aziraphale, who misses Crowley madly and realizes something very important: he loves him.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 42





	Happy Valentine's Day

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to HatKnitter for helping me with the translation of this work.   
> I really appreciate the time you spent on this!

Not that he cares at all. He has spent six thousand years wandering the earth and, if he has to be completely honest, most of them have been alone. And loneliness has been comfortable, still, quiet. It doesn't bother him at all. He doesn't mind.  
But now it's different. Now he might not be alone, and yet he is. It used to be a condition. It was an excuse. It was a promise.  
He has been telling himself he was alone because it was for the best. It was the safest thing to do. Heaven would not understand it, and Hell gave worse punishments than just strongly-worded letters.

He has told himself that maybe one day, maybe sometime, maybe they could go on a picnic, or have dinner at the Ritz. Maybe he'll take his hand and tell him how much he loves him, and then he'll accept it, and tell him he has craved it too, and it would be up to him. Because he loves him too, doesn't he? He wants to be by his side, too. They just had to wait, it was a matter of time.

_But what happens now?_

Outside it rains torrentially, and for some reason the fireplace is requiring a lot of attention. The water is boiling, and Aziraphale doesn't want to burn his tongue, but he hates wasting miracles. Like it or not, he is no longer part of the forces of Heaven, and he is not sure if they will come back to rebuke him. Yes, he scared them with all that body-swap stuff, but they still have the power. They can open the doors and kick him out. They can break the fine thread that joins him with his essence. They can bring him down. It can happen at any time, any day, any second.

But the angel has already made up his mind, and he's not going to move away from here. Not for anything in the world.

_They're on their own side now._

Aziraphale decides to call him.

Once, twice, three times. It's February 12th, but he's not aware of the date, why would he be? He's been there, and he knows that Valentine's Day is nonsense. But knowing it doesn't make it any less painful.  
  
He can feel the change in the air, in people's hearts. Even those who scream that they don't care, it hurts them. He can see the pain as gray cords that envelop people, and he sees the red color in the passion of some couples, and pink in those older couples, and white in the love of children, even of some teenagers. So pure, so new, so fragile. Love is wonderful, but it's also destructive. And he knows it.

But knowing doesn't make him want it him any less.

He thinks of Crowley when he's reading, and it's unbearable. He can't focus on the words or the pages. He has to look through each paragraph over and over again. It's a headache. The yellow of his eyes, the way they always darken when he looks at him. Because he knows, he notices. He's not a fool. The demon's pupils enlarge when he looks at him, and he fears his do the same. But he can't help it, he never could, neither of them could. Because even though his angelic part has told him that it’s impossible, his human body, his desires, his earthly feelings betrayed him a long time ago. And he couldn't help it. He couldn't hide it.

_But now he doesn't have to._

\---

This is the second batch of cookies he’s baking, and before that it was three cakes, and before that it was two wonderful milk breads. The calendar stuck on the kitchen wall warns him that it's February 13th, but he doesn't want to see it. He prefers to keep stirring ingredients. He'd rather not think about the fact that he’s called him five times today, without any answer. But it's hard for him.

He has to beat the egg whites until he achieves a sparkling meringue, but then Crowley walks up behind him, rests hands on his hips, caresses him. Rests his forehead on his shoulder, leaves kisses on his neck, and presses his chest against his back. His hug is warm, and Aziraphale wants to turn, wants to raise his head, wants his lips to find other lips. He wants Crowley to take him in his arms and kiss him, lift him onto the countertop, push away all the ingredients, undress him, and take him, make him his own, moan his name...

But the beep of the oven warns him that the cookies are ready, and that he must stop dreaming.  
It's too painful, too humiliating. To love him and not have him. To love him and be _able_ to have him, and yet be alone. And to hate each other for it.

He tries not to care about it, but he cares, and a lot. And he doesn't want to be alone. He doesn't want to be without him. He misses him, too much. And he has flushed cheeks and sweaty hands, and too much food he won't be able to eat on his own.

So he calls him a sixth time...  
Unsuccessful.

_He can't help it._

\---

It's still raining outside. The fireplace has finally cooperated, but the bookshop feels cold, and everything around him is disgusting, hateful. He decided he wouldn't open today, so he stays on the couch all day with a book in his lap that he’s not actually reading, a blanket next to him, and a cup of forgotten cocoa. Because he's not thirsty or hungry. He hasn't eaten in days. And the stupid couch reminds him of _him_ , and that blanket has _his_ aroma, and the whole bookshop feels off. He's all off.

It's February 14th, and he misses him, and he feels like an idiot.

He thinks he might have kissed him at the Bastille, despite how ridiculous he looked in that suit and that hairdo. And he knows that he should definitely have kissed him in that church during the Blitz, or in his apartment moments before changing bodies, when he had noticed that Crowley had kept that suspiciously similar statue…

He should have told him. In the Bentley in 1967, after giving him that silly thermos. Or sooner. He might have told him that he loved him, and that it hurt, and that he was scared. Terrified.

“Please don't do anything stupid. I could never forgive you,” he should have told him when they fought. When the words, "I don't even like you!" came out of his mouth. He should have. He might have put enough courage together to trade those words for _“You idiot! Can't you see it's dangerous? Don't you realize you could die? What would I do without you?”_... he should have.

And then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be alone on Valentine's Day.

Then the bell rings.

The angel runs to the door as if his life depends on it, then settles his heart. He notices that he hasn't changed his clothes or cleaned for days, but a quick miracle fixes that. Finally, he straightens his hair and smiles, opens the door with bright eyes, ready to meet the demon, his heart beating hard his chest.

"You are...," the young boy reads his form again, frowning. "Azira Fell?"

The blond nods, confused. He hasn't used that name in years, because he stopped relating to humans years ago. Or at least that's what he tried to do.

"I have a package for you, sir. Sign here, please, "

And as quickly as he arrived, the delivery man goes, leaving a fog of surprise and sadness behind him.

Aziraphale looks at the box with a frown and puts a hand on it. He doesn’t feel any kind of heavenly affection, but he can feel the demonic flashes and Crowley's particular nuances fluttering within it. He smiles excitedly and opens it quickly, sure it is a gift and not a hostile package.

Inside is a letter, a smaller box, and a feather – black, precious.  
One of Crowley's feathers.

 _"I know I promised to keep my distance, but I couldn't help thinking of you. I know how to recognize good chocolate when I see it and, this time of year, very good chocolate can be found._ _I hope you don't mind my pretense, but I thought it would be a chance to leave you this feather as well. In an emergency, you can wake me up by pressing it, or you can take it into your hands, call me, and be confident I'll be there immediately._

_Wake me up if you need me, angel, and enjoy the chocolate._

_Crowley."_

The chocolates will melt, the biscuits will start to harden, and he will certainly have a hard time cleaning the cup where the cocoa cooled, but he doesn't care. He takes the feather, grabs his coat, rushes out and locks the door, puts out the fire with a movement of his head, from outside, with his body already freezing in Soho's icy air.

 _In case of emergency_ , Crowley said. _If he needs him._ And he'll take him at his word.

His feet propel him through the streets, and in less than twenty minutes he finds himself at the apartment door, his throat sore, his cheeks red from the quick walk, and his eyes frozen. His fingers tremble inside his pocket, but he squeezes the feather, squeezes so firmly that he feels it stick to the palm of his hand. The softness contrasts with his touch – abrupt, desperate. And his thoughts go back and forth, shouting at him that it’s wrong, that he should not be here. It isn't worth it. Maybe it’s a mistake, maybe he should go back.

And he has already taken a step back, but in that moment, the door opens and two yellow eyes look at him, worried. And the owner of those eyes already has one foot outside, is finishing putting on his jacket, his hair all on end.

Crowley is awake, in front of him. Or _almost_ awake.

Awake enough to know that Aziraphale is in front of him, safe and sound.

"Angel."

 _God, I've missed him._ He has missed the parting of his lips, and the way his voice caresses his nickname.

"Oh, hello, Crowley..."

The demon frowns and his glasses slip to the tip of his nose. He tucks his hands under his arms, trying to warm himself up, watching Aziraphale as if he were a complete lunatic, or as if he doubts this is real.  
But he is also upset. Very annoyed.  
Crowley hates the cold.

"What the hell are you doing out here? It's freezing!"

He takes the angel by the arm and forces him in through the door. He is sure that at any moment it will start snowing, and inside his home it isn't exactly hot, but Aziraphale is frozen. He even suppressed a shiver when Crowley touched him.

"I, well, I..."

"Take that off, it's wet!"

The blond listens to him and takes his coat off. He folds it over his arm, but Crowley takes it away, leaving it on the living room couch. Aziraphale has been here before, and he knows what it's like. He knows that if he goes a little farther, he'll walk into the room where the redhead has his precious plants, and he knows that at the end of the hall is his office, the one with that horrible throne. And he knows where the kitchen is, what cabinet he keeps the tea in, and where the bedroom is. Because Crowley let him sleep in his bed on the night of the body-swap, even though he didn't sleep, and even though the demon was exhausted.

"Here, put this on," the demon tells him as he hands him a blanket – flannel, blue, with heavenly paintings. It almost seems destined to be on the angel. "Would you like a cup of tea? I only have common tea, but I'm sure you'll warm up faster if…”

"Crowley," the blond interrupts him with a little smile. "It's okay, dear. I’d love some tea. Any tea is fine, "

Crowley nods and sidles into the kitchen, dragging his feet, letting out a drowsy yawn. The angel knows he woke him up, and he knows he must answer some questions, but he wants to wait. He wants to keep the courage he feels in his chest, he wants to hold on to it, because he knows what he's got. He knows he has to do it now, or else he's going to shut up for another six thousand years.

He enters the kitchen and the image he receives is overwhelming. Crowley has taken his jacket off and left it lying God knows where. His glasses are off too, and his hair has grown in these months when they were separated. Not as much as eleven years ago, but enough to make it look funny and... tender. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright, and he’s leaning on the countertop, his hip resting against the cold marble, the teapot next to him on the stove. He's looking at him. He's inspecting him. Aziraphale knows. He feels it.

"Is everything all right?"

"Of course," answers the blond quickly, straightening himself up. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"I don't know. I felt your call, the tap on my back, and I thought... something had happened…"

That's when Aziraphale weakens. He feels guilty.  
He is a fool. He has scared Crowley for no reason, and he shouldn't have. He was selfish. A selfish fool. He has been for millennia.

"Oh, excuse me, dear, " he replies, approaching the demon, his steps quick and nervous. "I didn't mean to worry you. It's just that... I don't know, your package came, and I read your letter, and I saw the feather and I thought, I thought of your words," he tries to explain. "I thought about the emergency, and that you said to call you if I needed you, and I, I...," he stuttered, struggling to have the courage to say it.

Crowley watches him for long seconds, expectant, with his lips parted, feeling the warmth of the angel's body in front of him. Close, so close, and at the same time so far away, millions of light-years away. But he knows he could touch the blanket that covers those shoulders if he only stretched out his hand, and could caress his cheeks, and cradle his face. But he wants an answer. In addition to his fantasies, he craves an answer.

"You what?"

Aziraphale isn't going to give in, he can't even consider it. He steps forward, stretches out a hand to the demon's cheek and leaves a caress there. He knows what he has to do, and he knows what it means for him if he doesn't. He knows loneliness and pain. The feeling of guilt that has haunted him for years.

But not anymore. They are together, they are on their side, now. And if Heaven came back, then...  
 _Let them rot._ Crowley's eyes are perfect, and the way he leans against his palm, yearning for the little touch...  
 _Let them all rot._

"I need you, Crowley," he says softly. "I've always needed you, and I've always loved you, even when I denied it to you, even when I clearly said otherwise..."

He moves his other hand to the demon's cheek, cradles his face, smiling as he says the words. "It's Valentine's Day, and I'm a silly angel. An angel who has taken too long. A slow angel who couldn’t go at your pace, but now wants to catch up with you. I need to catch up with you..." He confesses, embarrassed. "And I know that the last time we talked, I said that nonsense about distance and protocols, and about staying apart. But the truth is, I panicked. These have been terrifying months, and I can't stop thinking about what would happen if they came back. What would they do to us? What... what would they do to you?"

He sighs, trying to calm down, trying to control his fear. "But now I know there's no point in being away from you. All I do is make us both miserable, setting you aside, rejecting you, when in fact we both know that... I love you. So, I came here to tell you this: I'm ready," he announces, with a tear falling down his cheek. "I'm ready for you, to go as fast as you want..." He pauses, hesitating again. "If… if you're willing to accept me, of course, "

The demon does not respond immediately.

Crowley looks at the angel for long seconds, his eyes lost in the blue, making sure this is real. He has dreamed a lot about Aziraphale in these past months, and maybe this is part of a dream too. Perhaps he will wake up any minute, as he woke up a few weeks ago when he decided to send the package, the letter, the chocolates, the feather... maybe it isn't real.

"Crowley?" the angel asks, worried that he has broken something inside the redhead, or touched some nerve. "Are you all right?"

The demon's hands take his cheeks and exert pressure, pulling his body quickly, dropping his lips on the angel’s in a kiss that screams tenderness, but demands passion. Aziraphale moves his hands to Crowley's hips and imprisons him against the countertop, wrapping him in his arms. Gives himself over to the kiss and the way the demon's hands caress his face gently, while his tongue seeks entry to his mouth, making him gasp.

After a minute that seems to last for hours, Crowley lets him go, but Aziraphale leans in, still dizzy from the tingling in his body. The snake watches him with eyes open wide, cheeks red like apples, and hair a complete mess. _He's beautiful,_ Aziraphale thinks. He looks beautiful.

"Is it true?" asks the demon, with a little stroke of fear in his voice. "Everything you said..."

"It is," Aziraphale replies with a smile. "All that I said."

Crowley smiles like a deranged man, and feels his eyes begin to moisten. The angel brings his hands back to his face and wipes away the tears that are already falling down his cheeks, and then kisses him again, brief and tender.

Then the teapot explodes.

Aziraphale hugs Crowley and screams. The porcelain container has exploded into a thousand pieces. He can feel the demon's heart beating frantically against his own chest, then smiles at hearing his laughter, worn and distant, stuck in his throat behind the repressed crying.

"Please tell me you didn't put a porcelain teapot on the fire..."

Crowley laughs again, louder this time.

Aziraphale raises his head and watches him. He looks relaxed, and is surprised to notice that he is, too. All the nervousness has disappeared, and now Crowley's laughter is all he can feel, bouncing against the walls, filling his ears and chest, pounding in his heart. Making a way to stay there.

"It was your fault, " replies the demon, funny, letting his hands rest on the blonde's hips. "You made me nervous with all your prattle, and I do stupid things when I'm nervous."

The angel raises both eyebrows, also amused. "Only when you're nervous?"

Crowley laughs again. "Okay, I do stupid things all the time,"

"Me too, dear,"

"But this was not one of them?"

Aziraphale smiles.  
He knows that, after all those years, Crowley won't be satisfied so quickly, nor will he believe him the first time. He also knows he is to blame for that, for having denied his feelings for so long. But he is willing to tell him again, as many times as necessary, and repeat it in full.

"No, my love," he answers, sure that he will quickly get used to addressing him that way. "I love you. I'm sure."

The demon sighs.

He'll need to hear it a thousand times, but he'll never get fed up with it. He'll never get tired of having this angel in his arms.

"I... I love you too, Angel"

"I'm glad to hear that, my love," he buries his face in the snake's chest, enjoying its warmth. "Happy Valentine's Day, by the way..."

Crowley smiles.

His confession, a promise, their first kiss... all on this silly lovers’ day. He can't think of a more ridiculous, and at the same time more perfect, day. He will certainly remember it forever, and Aziraphale will be delighted with it for life.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Angel"

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope you liked it. Remember that I don't speak English, so please let me know if there are any errors in the translation. Lots of love!


End file.
